Like she had during yesterday’s game, she took two tiny steps in his direction, no hint of her disposition. Her face had gone solemn and sad. “Down from what then? And why should I believe you?”
“You shouldn’t. That’s what I’ve wanted to say to you from the moment I saw you on the sidewalk. You shouldn’t let strangers buy you drinks, or ride on their motorcycles, Mia. You shouldn’t kiss them when you come out of class and you most definitely shouldn’t let strangers take you to bed, no matter how fucking incredible it is,” Flynn said, finding the nerve to leer at her body.
There was an unexpected flush of excitement. “I think you stopped being a stranger somewhere between oral sex and the second mind-bending orga—” Mia’s hand clamped over her mouth; they were very naked words and she wasn’t used to them. What the hell is the matter with me? I sound like a guest on Jerry Springer. Mia forced the subject back around, unsure if he was telling the truth about the drugs or if she only wished he was. “I have a cousin who was messed up on crack. They put him in a treatment program and he did really well . . .”
“I don’t have a drug problem,” he insisted. “If I did, for you I’d check myself into the thirty-day rehab at county general and detox until I pissed pure gold.”
“I’m flattered,” she said, unable to keep from smiling at his bluntness. “Then what, Flynn? What made you want to get out of that bed, away from me?”
“Don’t think like that. I didn’t do it to get away from you. It was to protect you.”
“From what?”
“From me.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, the next thing you’re going to tell me is that you sprout fur and bay at the full moon. I’m not that gullible.” At least, I don’t think I am. His hands still trembled. Mia sensed that he was doing everything he could to hold it together. “Maybe they have coffee at the front desk. Do you want me to see?” He nodded weakly. “I’ll be back. Think it over. You’re going to have to come up with the right answer if you want me to stay.” She wrenched on her jeans and walked to the door, still wearing his shirt. “And I’m bringing you decaf.”
Decaf with a side of hemlock, Flynn hoped. He had to think fast; the truth was out of the question. She was freaked out enough over last night’s episode. Anything smelling of the rancid truth would be suicide. How the hell did he get here? He’d done so well, answering to no one. Mia was an astonishing, unexpected complication, but worth every damn risk. Unless her safety was in jeopardy. That was unacceptable. But he also promised he wouldn’t leave, wouldn’t just bolt. What a jack-ass. What an unfathomable fucking corner he’d painted himself into. He couldn’t stay or leave, couldn’t tell the truth or lie. He was a terrible liar. It was the reason he lived like he did. Loners didn’t have anyone to lie to. Half-truths. Half-truths were better than nothing. Maybe he could buy some time with a carefully worded dissection of the whole fucking mess. But how much, and which parts? Before he could figure it out, she was back.
“Lucky you, they had decaf and donuts. I didn’t know which kind you like, so I brought all of them. Though I don’t know if a sugar high is the best thing for you.” She was trying hard to be cold and stern with him, but that trip wire of lusty warmth, the one he kept stumbling on, seemed to be derailing her plan as well. “I don’t know how you take your coffee either,” she said, poised over the foam cups, sugar packets in one hand, creamer in the other. “I don’t know how you like it, or why you sit naked and shivering in a field, in the pitch dark, like some POW.” Mia stopped, her stare shooting him like a bull’s-eye. “What happened to you in the Marines?”
Holy Christ, there goes the first half-truth. He was careful not to react to her conjecture. He would have to slow it down, no starting from places he had no intention of going. “Will you sit? And black, I take it black.”
“Of course you do,” she said, shoving the cup at him, falling into the small sofa. “Let me guess: plain donut, no frosting, no sprinkles. How uncomplicated, just like you.”
He let her have the sarcasm. Maybe it would burn off some anger. “What’d’ya do, Mia, steal the entire box?” he asked, reaching for the naked donut in the pile.
“Hmm, right, like I’d have to. I know how to flirt for what I want. Friendly, like you said. The front desk clerk was happy to hand over whatever I wanted.”
Flynn grabbed her wrist, pulling a chocolate glazed donut away from her mouth mid-bite. “Don’t do that, Mia. Don’t fuck with me right now. It’s not going to get you the response you’re looking for.” He let go, not caring for a second what she thought, not caring if it sent her screaming into the parking lot. “You’re smarter than that kind of behavior.”
“What behavior? I’m not—”
“Using sex as a means to an end. It’s not a good idea.”
The donut dropped back into the box. “Sorry, I—You’re right, sorry.”
They sipped tepid coffee in silence for a time, letting the tension level off. Flynn nervously edged back into the chair, somewhat confident that she wasn’t going to bolt, not sure if his legs were steady enough to stop her if she did. Making deep eye contact with his empty cup, Flynn spoke in a careful voice. “Peyton. My first name is Peyton.”
“Ohh,” she murmured in a drawn-out breath as if she’d just been made privy to one of the secrets of the universe. She leaned in, anticipating more. “Then Flynn is your . . .”
“Middle. Flynn’s my middle name. But it’s all everyone has ever called me—almost everyone. It’s my mother’s maiden name. Peyton Flynn McDermott, the whole name I left behind along with the rest of my life.”
She curled up on the sofa as if settling in for a fireside chat, resting her chin on her hand. “And what happened to Peyton Flynn McDermott that makes him run . . . from people, from life, from warm beds?”
“The bed part is easier to answer. I’ll start there.” He felt like he was slicing into a vein. Whether she knew it or not, he was about to bleed all over her. “It starts with a nightmare, always the same one.” She didn’t ask for details; he didn’t offer any. “I wake up, or at least I think I’m awake, in a cold sweat, a panic. I can’t breathe and I know it’s coming.”
“Did this happen last night, the nightmare?”
“Yeah, you were sleeping so peacefully—it was beautiful. I hoped for a second it might help me hold on, calm down. But really, it only made it worse. I didn’t want you to see me like that.”
She was adamantly shaking her head. “You should have woken me up, given me the chance. Maybe if I’d been awake I could have helped.”
“Hey, I’ve been doing this for a while, Mia. I’m not experimenting on you. Anyway, when the panic sets in, rooms are small places. I’ve trashed quite a few. That’s why I have the sleeping bag; outside’s better if the weather’s good. Trashed rooms get expensive. I couldn’t believe it—I’d gone from total ecstasy to sheer terror. I’ve never been on such a downward spiral.”
“I know what you mean.” Mia rolled her eyes, exhaling the breath that she seemed to have been holding.
“How’s that?”
“When I woke up and you were gone, well, I thought you’d left. You said . . .”
“I didn’t say. I promised. Promised you I wouldn’t do that.” She was blinking back tears. He felt the guilt and responsibility begin to mount. It had been a long time since that feeling was attached to anything new. He hadn’t thought about how she came to find him outside. Flynn reached over, gingerly pulling her hands. Mia’s body floated along until she was in his lap. The salvation that silken skin offered revived his strength. Flynn was suddenly fighting the urge to carry her to the bed.
“Will you tell me the rest? I want to understand what happened to you.”
It jerked him back to the explanation he owed her. Like a wild animal fresh from the hunt, he knew he was about to drag this beautiful creature into this deep black hole of his. Flynn drew a breath. If he wanted her to stay, he had no choice. “It’s kinda like if you were to wake up in
a coffin and find the lid nailed shut.” Mia squirmed a little, a low groan of acknowledgment coming from her throat. “You’d do anything to get out, right? You’d scratch, claw, scream—take down whatever was in your way.”
“That’s what being inside a room feels like when this happens?”
“No.” His head shook, the beard, the mouth turning down into a hard frown. “That’s what being in my body feels like when it happens. Rooms are just an unfortunate recipient of my attempts to escape. Anyway, it was coming, the panic. It’s like I stand on a razor-thin edge between reality and madness. I’m fighting to keep from falling into it, going back there. You see why I left? I couldn’t put you in the middle of that.” He raked a hand through his hair, his neck resting back against the chair. “God, I must sound like some kind of fucked-up head case to you . . .”
“Don’t say that. That’s not what I’m thinking. How often does this happen?”
“I can go a few weeks, a month sometimes, but it always comes back.”
“When did it all start?”
“It’s, um . . . it’s been a long time. At first it was just the nightmare. The panic and not being able to control it, that happened over time. It’s gotten worse the last couple of years.”
Mia’s fingertips delicately brushed along the outline of his face, as if trying to feel what was underneath. “What happened to you? What did they do to you so you’d end up like this? You said there were no nice memories from your time in the military. I can only imagine . . .”
“No, no, you can’t imagine, so don’t try.” Her hand dropped, tracing the outline of the scar on his shoulder, and he pushed it away. “Mia, this is where it’s going to get dicey. It’s not a matter of won’t or can’t tell you—I don’t know how to tell you. It doesn’t translate.” It’s not a story human beings can understand. He searched her eyes, waiting for some hint of which way she was leaning. Beneath that wispy layer of bangs, she crinkled her brow in serious debate.
“What about the pot?”
“The pot, well, that’s really part of the cure, not the danger. About a year ago, I was traveling with some bikers in the Midwest. We got to drinkin’ one night and I must have said something about the nightmares. The next day, this guy asked me if I ever tried meditating when it happens. He told me about this whole colony of guru types in Iowa that study TM—Transcendental Meditation. Said his brother suffered from the same thing and learned how to transfer the energy into a meditative state. I was willing to try anything so I headed up that way, hooked into some outcasts from the inner TM circle. They did teach me the basics, but they were throwbacks. You know, hippie types. There was this older guy, caught somewhere between meditation and methadone. Anyway, when he finally understood what I was up against, he suggested the pot, a calming energy by way of inhalation,” he offered with a raised eyebrow. “Between that and the meditation, I’m able to talk myself down. Eventually. That’s what I was trying to do when you found me. It’s a hell of a mind game. I don’t always win.” He waited, watching her contemplative face, thinking it would be best if she just said she couldn’t handle it and left.
Her tenacity surprised him.
“All of this,” she said, circling her arm in the air, “isn’t it some kind of post-traumatic stress? Isn’t the military responsible for helping you with something like that? I’ve heard about people who’ve been in wars, the effect. They can get you help . . .”
“Look, Mia, I wasn’t in a war. They’re not responsible. I don’t want anything to do with the goddamn Marines. I did my time—and then some. I’m done with it.” His hands fell away from her sides, letting her know she was free to go.
“But you won’t tell me. Wait,” she corrected herself, “you don’t know how to tell me what happened to cause all of this? You’d rather just let my imagination draw the conclusion, knowing it could be worse than the truth?”
Swinging her legs around, Flynn popped Mia to her feet, struggling to pull himself out of the chair. He scrubbed his hands over his exhausted face and moved away from her. “Draw whatever conclusions you need to, sweetheart. I’m very sorry you got caught in this. I’m not a damn bit sorry about what happened there,” he said, gesturing to the bed. “It’s a fucking dilemma either way. If I had any sense, if I wasn’t really a selfish prick, I’d make the decision for you.” He lit a cigarette and took a hard drag, retreating back to the place where demon handling was a one-man sideshow. Mia gave a small nod to the ultimatum, her eyes puffy and red. The disaster his presence would bring to that beauty and innocence. Mia approached and he braced for the slap she had threatened him with days ago. Instead she reached up and plucked the cigarette from his mouth.
“I don’t like cigarette smoke—it’s bad for you, it’s bad for the environment. Can you deal with that much?” He took it back from her and snuffed it out. She bit her lip and carefully looked him over. “Marijuana smoke when necessary, that’s another story.” Her hand came up, smoothing his wild mane of hair; her head tilted to the side. “Two more things. Your shirt,” she said, tugging at the sleeve. “Can I keep it? And if I were to ask you for the truth from the here and now, will you give it to me?”
“Whatever you want to know, Mia. From the here and now.”
“Tell me what you want right now, more than anything. A drink? A shower? The open road?”
“For you to take that shirt off. I’ll gift wrap it for you.”
Chapter 12
MARYLAND
The value of a clock in an ICU is purely medicinal. It delivers the cue for lifesaving rituals performed on the hour: administering meds, monitoring IVs, taking readings, changing bandages. For everything else it’s just a reminder of the minutes lost. It seemed a little silly at first; for heaven’s sake, they’d already lost years. But as hours turned to days, each ticking moment became a steady drip, a torturous claim of whatever might be left. So it was that, and a sense of union that had never waned, that bolstered Mia’s resolve to help him. She was determined to find a way to bring Flynn back. What happened after that . . . well, Mia knew it was a lie to say it didn’t matter.
Reclaiming her role as Flynn’s champion was like slipping into a comfy old sweater. Having leapt blindly to his aid years before, this time confidence was Mia’s guide; she even implemented a few savvy business maneuvers on his behalf. She delved into research on coma victims and learned that massage often brought about good results. That was a no-brainer. Last winter she’d designed a totally green Zen massage studio outside D.C. It took one phone call. Having been so impressed with her work, the masseur couldn’t come to Mia’s aid fast enough, insisting that he take on Flynn’s therapy pro bono. Other tasks, simpler by definition, were more emotional by nature. It took every ounce of professional calm she had when Mia walked in on a nurse poised over Flynn’s head with a razor in hand. “Too matted,” she groused. “This will be easier.” Fighting her gut instinct—which was to wrestle the nurse to the ground and turn the buzzing shears on her—Mia stuck to practiced negotiation. If it posed a medical problem, she understood. Otherwise, they could take the time to wash it; she’d gladly help. Three bottles of diluted peroxide later, they managed to chip away at the layers of dried blood, reviving Flynn’s chestnut waves.
A second-year neurology resident had been assigned to his case. Mia took an instant dislike to him, finding him condescending and rude. She smiled, thinking Flynn would approve of her methods. He never could stand for anyone to talk down to her. Surely, the head of neurology was a much better choice. But that was unheard of, the staff insisted. Dr. Logan wasn’t taking new patients, and certainly not one that qualified for indigent care. When an initial call went unanswered, Mia was undeterred. She suspected that a request from Dr. Burke might do the trick. Though getting Roxanne on board with that plan would be the long way around; Flynn didn’t have that kind of time. There was another option. With a spot-on Southern drawl and some attitude, which was ingrained, she left a second message posing as the esteemed
Dr. Burke. He responded immediately. Mia did wonder, as she waited for Dr. Logan, if there was any man Roxanne couldn’t intimidate. Raising a brow, she smiled at Flynn’s slumbering body. There was one. When Dr. Logan arrived, a lengthy consultation ensued where Mia did most of the talking. The man was exceptionally qualified and genuinely compassionate. It only took a bit of gentle persuasion for him to agree to take the case. The busy doctor even took time to inquire about Mia’s drawings, which had become as permanent as the medical equipment in Flynn’s room. Dr. Logan appeared as interested in them as he did his new patient. Mia explained, in detail, the benefits of a green environment. After completing a fresh round of tests, the chest tube and ventilator were removed. Flynn was breathing fine on his own. Mia thought it was a sign, but Dr. Logan insisted that it didn’t reflect on the coma.
Mercifully, Roxanne had switched to the night shift. Three solid weeks of a grueling schedule had kept her at bay. When the rotation ended there would be fallout. Mia was ready for as much. What she was less prepared for was Michael’s reaction. There would be fallout there too, undoubtedly followed by an utter explosion. But as the moments eked forward, with weeks instead of days dedicated to Flynn, how or when that might happen seemed less apparent. Michael’s nonstop schedule facilitated the situation. His dealings as an investment banker took him out of town some weeks, out of the country on occasion. When he was home, moments beyond the ICU ticked by in an awkward stutter, making it difficult to focus, never mind confess life-altering situations. His absence left time and space, and Mia used it to complete her designs while watching over Flynn.
At first it seemed like fair justification. Even long after he’d vanished, Flynn encouraged concepts that almost everyone else labeled eccentric, her husband included. Having witnessed her past successes, Michael was far more impressed with Mia’s everyday designs. She understood; he was proud of her accomplishments and reluctant for Mia to take unnecessary risks. But his inability to appreciate her passion was a needling reminder of things they didn’t share. The deal with Hough was the first time Michael had shown real interest in her eco-friendly, holistic mission. And Mia had hoped it was a positive sign in a passive marriage. So with logistics and reason working to her advantage, she could only assume that culpability was causing the ulcer-like burn in her stomach.
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